


Xanadu

by stefanie_bean



Category: Lost
Genre: Complete, F/M, Rare Pairings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stefanie_bean/pseuds/stefanie_bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they settle into the Barracks, Hurley and Claire get to know each other better as they watch the cult favorite, "Xanadu."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unwelcome Visitor

When Locke strode into Kate and Claire's Barracks cottage without knocking, Kate made a hard fist, ready to strike at anyone who came near. 

Her step-father Wayne used to walk in on her like that. Wayne, with his cigarette stench and whiskey breath, coming into her bedroom at two in the morning, waking her out of a sound sleep. "Katie," he would whisper as he blew a stink like a barroom floor into her face. "Katie, let's talk." She would roll over, pretending not to hear him, and most of the time he would go away. Sometimes he wouldn't, but she couldn't think about that right now. 

There were more important things to worry about. For one, Locke had a gun, and knives. Earlier that day, as Kate and Claire had taken their morning coffee on the front porch, Locke stormed out of his house, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Kate sat rigid with anxiety, the small hairs on her arms standing straight up. Then Locke threw one knife after another into the post which held up the front porch of his house. The metal clanks sounded in Kate's ears like death-knells. 

Today the knife might shiver in wood. Tomorrow, who knows, maybe it would stick in you. At least Aaron was tucked out of sight in Claire's bedroom, snug in a plastic wash basket.

When Locke first walked in, Claire had stood rigid in the corner of the room, her face fixed in a blank stare, trying to look small and inconspicuous as possible. Locke strolled around their small living room, pushing his face into Kate's, gazing back and forth as if he belonged there, as if he could walk in on them anytime he wanted. As if they were his. 

Soon Locke told Claire to leave, that he wanted to talk to Kate alone. Claire headed for Kate's bedroom instead of her own. That's where Kate herself would have hidden, had she wanted to spy. Claire was probably standing with her ear pressed up against the corner nearest to the living room. The house walls were so thin they might as well have been cardboard. Claire had just better not let Locke hear her breathing. God knows what he'd do then.

Locke delivered his ultimatum: Kate wasn't welcome in his camp anymore. She was to leave at first light. Missive delivered, Locke let the door slam behind him on his way out. 

Like a rabbit creeping out of its hole after the fox leaves, Claire sank down next to Kate on the grey sofa. "So, he's going to banish you? For just talking to Miles?"

It wasn't until Locke had left that Kate realized how hard she was shaking. "Claire, he's crazy. How long before he goes all Jim Jones on us?"

Claire just looked confused. “Jim Jones?”

Obviously Claire hadn't heard of the American mass murderer who led his cult followers into the Central American jungle, then convinced them to drink cyanide-laced Kool-Aid. “Never mind. It would only give you nightmares. It's bad enough right now."

Locke's shadow still cast a pall over the room. "What are you going to do?” Claire said. “I don't want you to leave." 

Kate sat for a moment, thinking. "I'm going to go back over and talk to Sawyer."

"Yeah, good idea," Claire answered, but her face said otherwise. “Guess I'll just go to bed then, right?"

Kate remained on the sofa, twisting the tail of her shirt, when an idea came to her. This just might work. "Don't do that yet."

"You're going to spend the night over there with Sawyer, aren't you?" 

Kate nodded. "I hope so. Just keep the lights on. And don't go to bed just yet."

"Well, there are those old sheets we found, the ones with all the holes. I could turn those into nappies." 

"Yeah, that's great. Just don't be like me, and forget to lock the door." 

Kate gave Claire a quick hug. She then slipped out into the night, to the house across the commons which Sawyer and Hurley shared.

* * * * * * * *

The loud disco beat made the front windows of Sawyer's house shake. Kate rapped a few times, to no avail. Finally Sawyer shouted, "Turn that goddamn thing down, all right?"

She knocked again, harder this time. Inside, something rustled; the blaring music's volume lowered, and ponderous footsteps moved towards the door. That had to be Hurley.

When Hugo saw Kate, brief disappointment flickered across his round features. It wasn't that he was unhappy to see her. In fact, he broke into a warm smile as he stepped aside to let her in, after checking once or twice to see if she was alone. The smile was different, that was all. He had been expecting someone else.

“Hi, Hurley.”

"Hey, Kate. Second time's a charm."

“Can I come in?” The tone in her voice made Hugo's smile fade. She gave the house a quick scan, taking in the paused VHS tape jittering like her heart, the beef jerky wrappers scattered around the coffee table, a copy of Stephen King's _Carrie_ lying half-open on its side. She pointed to the book. "That's heavy bedtime reading."

Hugo shuffled, looking a little embarrassed. "You want to sit down? There's more jerky in the kitchen." As he started to move across the room, she stopped him.

"Where's Sawyer?" she said in a low voice.

"In his bedroom, with the door shut. He says disco sucks.” Hugo gestured towards the television. "Is, uh, this gonna bother you two? I just started it."

 _Xanadu_ , the tape case read. "Bother us?" At once she knew what he meant, and her face reddened. She hated how easily she flushed, but couldn't do a thing about it, and her stiff tones made her sound more like her mother than she liked. 

"No, listen.” Kate kept her hand on his arm, but when Hugo's face went blank, she knew he was upset. She made herself relax and forced a friendly smile. "You know, maybe I will have some of that beef jerky. And turn the tape back on."

Disco transitioned into the swing jazz of a 1940s-era big band, topped by the puckish roving melody of a solo clarinet.

"That's better," Sawyer bellowed from the bedroom. “Some of us actually read, you know.”

In the kitchen, Hugo handed Kate a small cellophane packet with a white octagonal label. She tried to pull her scattered thoughts together as she opened the wrapper. "Locke barged in on us. He walked right in as if he owned the place."

"No way.” Hugo's voice was mild, but the set of his shoulders was anything but calm.

"You know when I tricked you into telling me where Miles was?"

"Yeah, that was slick.” There was real regret in his voice.

"I'm sorry. But I had to talk to Miles. And Locke wasn't going to let me do it any other way."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"Just bad karma from scooby-doobying you." 

“Nah, you just paid me back for me tricking you guys, when I hid in the closet.”

Kate thought for a second about telling him the whole thing, how she had untied Miles, gave him exactly one minute to talk with Ben, who was languishing in a cell in Locke's basement. How Miles had told her no easy rescue for her, because the men on the approaching freighter knew who she was. Knew about her criminal past. 

All at once the Methodist hymn from her childhood church came back to her, the one that went, "No hiding place down here." She needed to hurry this up though. "It was a waste of time, Hurley. But Locke banished me."

Hugo's voice lifted in alarm. "He what?" 

She did not need Sawyer to come bursting out of the bedroom, so she motioned for Hugo to quiet down. "Locke caught me. No, it wasn't your fault, and no, I didn't tell him how I found out where Miles was."

Hugo looked away, crestfallen. "So where's Claire now, and Aaron?"

"They're still at the house. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." 

He loomed massive and out of place in the small, overly feminine kitchen with its blue and white Italian china, its pink floral paintings. Kate could sense his disappointment, that Claire hadn't come along with her. 

He pointed to the jerky which Kate had set down on the kitchen counter. "You gonna eat that?" 

She studied the pattern on a floral teapot as he finished the jerky, then said in an offhand, casual voice, "You know that movie you were watching? _Xanadu?_ "

"Yeah. The other one was a slasher, and _Carrie_ was getting kinda depressing."

"I've seen _Xanadu_ ," she lied. "It's pretty good." She hoped she would say the right thing, that Hugo wouldn't shrink like a turtle into his shell when she brought her idea forward. "You know the actress? Olivia Newton-John?"

"The blonde?"

"Did you know she was an Aussie? Well, sort of." A big sort-of, but now she had Hugo's attention. "Maybe, you know, Claire might like to see it."

"Yeah, maybe.” Hugo's eyes were bright with interest.

"Since you just started it. We have a VHS player, too."

"Pretty much everybody does.” Hugo tried to sound casual, but failed. "When Sawyer and I went around, we checked."

Even in Iowa they told jokes about Missouri mules, and here was one right in this kitchen. "Hurley, listen. Locke might come back, and I think it would be better if you went over. At least for a little while. Because I'm going to stay here. For awhile."

Three or four strains of thought crossed his face. "Isn't it kinda late?"

After months of watching the sun, Kate still wasn't used to keeping time, and she had to glance at the kitchen clock. "It's not even nine."

"You, uh, really think she'd be cool with that?"

"Hurley, she would be cool with that." At least she hoped that was true. Since their little band had come to live in the Barracks, Claire had seemed happier than Kate had seen her in a long time. Not ecstatic or jumping up and down, but radiating a quiet and calm sense of peace. Something deep inside Claire seemed to have worked its way to the surface, where she turned it over a few times for examination, then laid it to rest for good. 

Claire didn't talk about Charlie's death, or how their camp had split into two factions, Locke's at the Barracks and Jack's at the beach. Instead, she threw herself into a flurry of activity around their cottage, as if her spirit as well as her hands craved the work. 

She had already washed their sheets and Aaron's diapers, dug some fat potatoes out of the backyard garden, and had even gathered some wood for a chicken run to house the loose hens. 

In short, Claire was settling in for the long haul.

Nor had Kate missed the quiet moment when earlier that day, Claire and Hugo had made small talk under the spreading beeches as Hugo hung up laundry. He handed her pins, basking in her presence like a plant in the spring sun. Or how Hugo had washed decades' worth of dust from an old toy, for the baby. 

The Others hadn't had kids in that camp for a very long time, it was clear. Maybe Juliet had been telling the truth after all. Maybe pregnant women really did die on this Island. But there was Claire, humming to herself as she dug in the garden, Aaron all fat and sassy as he squirmed in his basket. Whatever might have happened to those women of the Others, it hadn't happened to Claire. Anyway, everyone knew that Juliet was a liar, and that Jack was more eager than anyone to believe her lies. 

Hugo brought Kate back to the moment. "What do you think Locke really wants?" 

"I don't know, Hurley. But—"

"Hey," came Sawyer's voice from the bedroom. "That you, Shortcake?"

"He never quits, does he?" Hugo frowned, sensitive about Sawyer's nicknames.

It didn't bother Kate, though. She tossed her head, all flirtation and mischief. "I wouldn't have him any other way." She turned from Hugo, who was still trying to puzzle it out, and headed towards Sawyer's bedroom with a face composed and calm. 

( _continued_ )


	2. And a Welcome One

Claire sat cross-legged on the master bedroom floor, while Aaron slept on a soft, dark blue blanket, secure in his wash basket. The walls hemmed her in, and briefly she wished she could join Danielle Rousseau in her solitary camp at the jungle's edge, right outside the Barracks. 

She paced the room for awhile like a trapped animal, then peered out the rear window. Out in the darkness a tiny spark flickered: Rousseau's fire. Claire had a wild urge to grab Aaron, stuff a few nappies into her backpack, and flee.

That was crazy, though. What would she do in the forest with a baby? Anyway, Rousseau would probably just drive her away. Rousseau had gotten what she wanted, a reunion with her long-lost daughter Alex, as well as a new son too: Alex's gawky, endearing lover Karl. They were a family now, and she, Claire, would just get in the way. As she always had, starting as the child her mother hadn't planned for or wanted, but had kept anyway. Now, here she was herself, mother to a similarly unexpected child.

Not unwanted, though. Not anymore.

The baby's little back made the blanket rise up and down with tiny breathing movements. Claire felt connected to Aaron's small body by invisible webs, and she would have known whether he was breathing or not, even without looking at him.

The bedrooms were stuffy, but Kate and Claire kept the windows shut because the rusted screens were full of holes. If they opened them, the rooms soon filled with moths, their fat, furry bodies thicker than Claire's thumb. 

Maybe the Others hadn't minded the bugs. Claire didn't, either, not outside at least. But in the house, their trapped beating against the walls and windowpanes filled her with anxiety. She rested her face up against the night-cooled glass, and her breath smudged the window with a foggy stain. 

Kate had said not to go to bed yet, but why? The flannel sheets sat in their basket, waiting to be cut up. Claire didn't blame Kate for running over to Sawyer's, though. Whatever daft idea Locke had, Sawyer wasn't going to let Kate go. And if Locke was stupid enough to push it, he would have a fight on his hands. 

"Oh, bloody hell," Claire said, fogging the window once more. 

Someone knocked on the door, and not politely or softly, either. She jumped, and her heart gave a loud hard bang. She had to get out of here. She could just tie the baby around herself, throw open the window, and disappear into the night, before John hammered down the front door and got to her. 

The bangs came again, three times, insistent. 

My God, he was going to break the damn door frame. She tried to open the window, but the latch was stuck. In movies people wrapped cloths around their fists and smacked the glass, but Claire hadn't the first idea how to do that, and anyway, the shards might hit the baby. 

The front of the house fell silent, and Claire let out a long breath. Maybe John had gone away. What was a lock on a door, when you think about it? Especially doors like these, flimsy as plywood. A lock was an idea, nothing more, yet one that worked, because John hadn't barged in. So far. 

Claire poked her head out of the bedroom. 

The whole front of the house shook with a bang so strong it rattled the window glass. Claire darted back into the bedroom, thinking furiously. She should have followed her first impulse, and gone to Rousseau. Maybe if she begged, Rousseau would take her back to the beach. Because Claire certainly couldn't find her way there herself, and it was a long enough trek as it was. 

Maybe she could face Locke, though. He couldn't be enough of a monster to hurt her, could he? Not with the baby, surely. 

She started for the door when another bang came, this time followed by a voice.

"Claire?" Hugo called out. "Are you in there? Are you okay?"

The shock almost sent her to her knees. Trying to keep the laughter and relief out of her voice, she called out, "Yeah, Hurley, I'm here. Just a sec."

* * * * * * * *

When Claire opened the door, Hugo noticed that she looked paler than usual. Her hair was mussed, and faint blue shadows smudged the tender skin beneath her eyes.

"Quick, get in before the moths,” she said.

He had to squeeze through the narrow opening to avoid shoving her into the wall. When he turned the lock, the VHS tape flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor. He retrieved it, handing it to her like a present. 

"What's this?" 

"I watched the first fifteen minutes. Then Kate came over. And she, uh, and I thought, well, maybe. If you haven't already seen it, I mean."

His heart sank when she didn't say anything at first. Despair drilled into his breastbone as Claire opened the case with a curious expression. He leaned over to get a peek for himself at something written in permanent marker on the case's inside. "To Jules, with love from Tom."

Hugo remembered the stocky man with the fake beard on the Pala Ferry dock. "I think I know who Tom is. But who's Jules?"

Claire shrugged and rolled her eyes as if to say that they were Others; who could understand them? 

Maybe this situation could be salvaged. "She's Australian," Hugo said, wondering if it would help. Even though her living room was exactly the same size as his and Sawyer's, he felt too big, out of place, as if he might knock over a piece of furniture without even trying. She hadn't invited him to sit down, and so he stood there, trying to wipe the stupid grin off his face and failing.

"Australian?" Claire's expression softened a bit, and she almost laughed. "She's not exactly the real thing, I'd say."

Hugo felt stupider than before, if that were even possible. "What?" 

"You know, a native. Mum, my grandparents, their people went back to transport days.” There was real pride in her voice. "Olivia Newton-John, though, she's really a Pom. Um, sorry. British."

Hugo almost said, _Like Charlie_ , but held his tongue. 

"No matter,” she said. “Oz is full of people who think they're from down under, just 'cause they live there a few years. We're used to it." The bright wide smile was back. Her face didn't look so tired, nor did the shadows under her eyes seem so blue.

"Yeah, LA's like that, too. Everybody's from somewhere else."

She sat down, and so he figured it was all right to do the same. 

"You, too?" 

"Nah, I was born in LA."

"Um.” She rested her hands on her knees and fell silent. 

Her still form unnerved him. "Where's Aaron?" 

"In the bedroom, sleeping. It's kind of weird, knowing he's in another room. Not being next to him, you know?"

He didn't, but he smiled just the same, and lifted the paper bag. "I brought popcorn. If you wanna watch the movie."

"I wondered what that bag was." 

"I'd of made it, but there was no oil at our house. No butter, either. I think the woman who lived there was on a diet or something."

The kernels rattled as she took the bag from him and headed for the kitchen. "Well, there's a bit of butter here. Might as well use it before it goes over. And oil, too, a whole bottle. You want me to do the honors?" 

Hugo shifted a bit, embarrassed. "I'm, uh, kinda used to the microwave stuff."

"It's easy. I'll show you how." 

He followed her into the kitchen, where there were way less china plates and knick-knacks than in his. Claire poured a little oil into a heavy saucepan, then covered the bottom with kernels. 

He looked in, and gave a small frown. "That's not very much." As soon as he said it, he braced for the small stiff retort, the reminder that he didn't need that much popcorn anyway.

Claire just smiled. "You'd be surprised. A little goes a long way." She shook the pan back and forth, hands holding the lid down in a firm grip. "We used to make this over an open fire all the time. When I went to camp."

"Camp?"

"Up by Brisbane. They have huge forests, a lot like here. Full of creepers and ferns and things."

"So, Crocodile Dundee camp, huh?"

She tossed her head and rolled her eyes at the mention of the Australian movie action hero. "Without the crocs, though. Can't have the whole Year Eight eaten on holiday, can we? Too many distressed mums." 

He couldn't have found Brisbane on a map to save his neck, had no idea what a Year Eight was, or why Crocodile Dundee put that small scoff in her voice, but she was still smiling, so he didn't care. The popcorn started to sputter, first in a few random bursts and then a volley. Claire kept shaking the pan until the popping had mostly stopped.

"Awesome," Hugo said as he lifted the lid.

"No, wait!”

It was too late. Popped kernels shot right into his face, and a few even stuck to his hair. 

"Silly, you've got to wait a moment or two till it's all done." She stood on tiptoe to pick off the white fluff, her face so close that he could see the pearly gold of her lashes, smell the toothpaste-mint of her breath. When she pulled back, the worry started up in him again. What was he doing here, anyway? That look couldn't have meant what he thought it did. Ridiculous, right? But deep down he knew it wasn't ridiculous at all.

She waved her hand around the kitchen. "I'll go put the tape on. Maybe you can get creative and jazz up that popcorn a bit." 

Hugo melted butter, then found Parmesan cheese and onion powder. He squashed them both over the popcorn, then threw on a bit of parsley for good measure. The rich buttered smell filled the small house.

When he brought his bounty into the living room, the lights were turned lower than before. She had rewound the tape, which he'd forgotten to do. He set the overflowing popcorn bowl on the coffee table between them, telling himself that's why he struck out with women. All these simple things went right by him. There were so many to remember; how could he even know where to start? 

Claire didn't seem to care, though. She perched on the other side of the couch, not too close, not too far away, leaving a space the size of a small child between them.

Controller in hand, she said, "Ready?" 

( _continued_ )


	3. Suspended in Time

Hugo didn't pay that much attention to the movie at first. Sure, the girls' legs looked great, and Olivia Newton-John's magical girl Kira roller-skated like a graceful fish sliding through water. Her lithe body reminded him of Claire's. Things got psychedelic pretty fast, though. 

Claire brought them some water, then plopped down a little closer to him, their knees almost touching.

When the Pan-Pacific Auditorium came on-screen, Hugo said, “I know that place.”

She stopped the tape. Encouraged, Hugo went on. "I was just a kid. My Grandpa Tito was working at these houses up by Beverly Hills, and after school I'd go along. To, you know, get stuff from the truck, things like that. It was late, and we were just finishing up when the whole sky filled up with black smoke. There were so many sirens, it sounded like the Martians were landing." 

From the hillside which overlooked the LA. basin, the red-black column had grown larger and more fierce. Might as well wait, Grandpa Tito had said. There would be no getting through the traffic. They sat down on the coarse sedge grass, and the owner of the house joined them. By the time the sun went down, nothing but a yellow and red glow remained. 

“Can you believe I wanted to drive over there and look? Man, was I a dumb kid."

"Was anybody hurt?" 

"I dunno. It was probably empty."

"That's sad. Such a pretty building." She snuggled a bit closer as she started up the tape. He very badly wanted to put his arm around her, but debated about it so hard with himself that he sat stiff and unmoving. When Kira's father Zeus told her that she couldn't stay with Sonny, but could have one last evening with him, he felt Claire's deep sigh all through his own body. He was afraid to look over at her, though, for fear she'd scoot away.

Then it was over. Because the music was so awesome, they watched the credits till the screen turned blue, then turned to each other. As if reading each other's thoughts they both said at once, "Did you—" and "I don't—" and "What just happened there?" 

"Didn't Kira just, uh, beam up to the mother ship or something?" Hugo said, confused. "So how could she—"

"That waitress was supposed to be her, right? But I thought she couldn't stay with Sonny."

"Well, maybe she broke the rules."

"What rules?" 

"Remember that song, where they were in disco Mt. Olympus? Her mom said something about breaking the rules."

Claire frowned, still trying to piece it together. "I thought that was supposed to be just for one night. But then again, her mum and dad didn't have much of a sense of time, did they?"

Hugo shrugged, trying to hide his embarrassment. "Sorry it was so dumb."

"Dumb?" Claire looked surprised. "I loved it."

"You did?" He was genuinely surprised himself, as well as relieved.

"Sure. Yeah, I know it was crazy. Like that cowboy bit, where did that come from? But Sonny was so sweet. And I'm glad they got to be together in the end." As she reached for the popcorn bowl, the space between them shrank to nothing. 

She dug around in the remains of the popcorn. "Nothing but old maids left. It was a real feast, Hurley. Delicious."

"I could make some more.”

"I'm full." 

Since the fast-rewind button on the controller didn't work, she glided across the room to manually rewind the tape. Something inside told him that she wouldn't be back to snuggle up close on the couch like before. 

She crouched by the television for a moment, still fiddling with it. "You know, this movie. It's a lot like us."

Something leaped up inside Hugo. Had she really said that, or was it just what he wanted to hear? "Us?" he said, mouth dry.

"Yeah, you know. How all kinds of weird stuff keeps happening in the movie, for no reason. One strange thing after another. Nobody ever wants an explanation. By the end, it's gotten so wacky, nobody even notices any more. Like crazy has become the new normal. It's like that for all of us, on this island."

"Right.” He fought hard against crushing disappointment, and lost.

"Like when the television starts talking to Sonny. You think he'd scream and run out of there. But he doesn't."

Hugo's mind raced like a steeplechase over hills and downs. He hated it when that happened, because it usually took him someplace he didn't want to go. If he said too much, all his too-close familiarity with delusion would come out. In a hesitant voice he said, "Maybe when things get just a little bit trippy, you freak out. But then when things get so freaky—"

"Yes! You just learn to live with it. Like, how weird is it that we're sitting here in a house with electricity, eating popcorn, watching television?"

He didn't want to say it, didn't want to allude to it in the slightest, but it bubbled out anyway. "Hey, Claire." His rough low voice made her look at him with surprise. "Did you ever feel, uh, that you were in a play? You know, on-stage? That things just weren't, um, what they seemed?"

He knew it must have sounded like babble to her when she said in a tentative voice, "Uh, no. Not really. Not unless I was in one." Instead of coming back to the couch, she grabbed the popcorn bowl and their the water glasses, saying in a distracted voice, "No use leaving this about."

He wanted to follow her into the kitchen, but didn't. Anything he said at this point would make him sound like a lunatic. Once the thoughts got going, they were impossible to shut up. 

_You sound like a lunatic because you are,_ they told him. _If you tell her, she'll throw you out. You better punt, you sad sack, just like you did when you told Libby that stupid story about breaking your hip. That was rich. You saw Libby's face, dumb-ass. She didn't believe you for a second._

Hugo argued back. He would tell her, he promised himself. Just not right now. Not tonight. Tomorrow, or the day after. By next week at the latest. Because they would probably be here for awhile. Those guys on the Not-Penny's-Boat would come and get what they wanted, then go. That's what they were supposed to be doing in the Barracks hiding from rescue. Take it slow. Tell her in a few days. After all, they had time, right?

All he could say when he went into the kitchen was, "So, you were in plays?"

She ran water in the kitchen sink, glad to be asked. "Just supporting roles in community theater. Not the big time." Then, with only a trace of defensiveness, "It's where I met Thomas. Aaron's father." 

She had never mentioned him before, not to anyone as far as Hugo knew, and another pang went through him. This was different than the fear that she wouldn't like him, or would find him ridiculous, or that sooner or later he was going to have to tell her about his hospitalization. 

It almost killed him to bring it up, but he had to. While it might not have mattered to Charlie, it did to him. "Was Thomas... do you think he's, you know... Are you two still—" He couldn't finish the question, as much as he tried.

The knife-sharp edge in her voice startled him. "He threw me out. I never saw him again, if that's what you mean."

"I'm sorry.” Not as sorry for having brought it up, because the look she turned on him was pure blue arctic ice.

"I'm not."

Hugo didn't want to step in any deeper. "You know, maybe I should—"

She touched his arm in the same spot Kate had, but her touch was nothing like Kate's. The electric thrill went up and down the whole side of his body, and he stood riveted by her grip. He couldn't have moved if he tried. 

"No, please. I'm just touchy about it, you know?" She gazed down at the beige linoleum floor, avoiding his eyes.

He was just about to take her delicate face in his hand and raise it a bit, maybe brush the long bangs away from her eyes, when a thin wail rose from the bedroom. When it wasn't answered, it resolved into a lusty cry. 

"I'll get him," she said.

By the time Claire got back, Hugo had already cleared the remaining dishes. Baby Aaron, red-faced from his squall, squirmed in her arms and pouted. 

Claire dabbed cool water on the baby's head. "The room was stifling. I couldn't open the window, but I shut the door anyway so the telly wouldn't disturb him, and now look." 

Her anxiety spread to Hugo, too. Just his luck. What was he thinking coming over here? "Does he have a fever?" 

She fought back tears. "He could have heat stroke."

When Hugo bent down to look more closely, the baby grabbed a lock of hair and gave it a swift yank. "Yow!”

The baby yanked again, this time with a smile. 

"I think he's gonna be okay,” Hugo said.

She looked up at him, her damp lashes trembling, and he was lost.

When she finally spoke, the shake was gone from her voice. "Time for some nursie, Aaron.”

Oh, God. What was he supposed to do with himself now? "You want me to, uh...?"

"Why? Oh, don't tell me you're one of those cover-it-up types."

"Um, I just thought." He had always been careful not to stare at her when she nursed Aaron.

"You can keep me company. He's getting to the point where it's as much for fun as for milk."

Hugo couldn't stop the blush which covered his cheeks any more than he could stop his racing thoughts. In his confusion he remembered that she always had a water bottle nearby when she fed the baby. “Let me, um, get you some water.”

“Sure.” She settled herself on the couch and pulled up her t-shirt, oblivious to the reaction she was inspiring. He fled for the kitchen.

"I'm going to get spoiled," she called to Hugo from the living room. "I almost can't believe I did this on the ground, or under a tarp. It seems like another life." 

Hugo tried to imagine what it was like to be tied to another being that way, bound by a web of love and desire and obligation. It seemed terrifying. But it seemed like heaven, too. Like Xanadu, beautiful and unobtainable, yet right over the horizon. Right through the door, or on the other side of that magic wall which parted to let you in, but only if you were ready. Only if you knew where to look.

They sat together in the small room with its earth-gray furniture, its rough clay pots and stark checkerboard carpet. The house's military-base design seemed so ordinary. If you didn't know better, you'd think you could just drive down to the Quik-Snak on Alameda Boulevard for a Mr. Icee Berry slush, the kind which left your whole mouth ringed with zombie blue. 

Instead here they sat in the middle of nowhere, and even though someone very dedicated was looking for them, someone who might even be quite nearby, neither of them were in any hurry to be found. 

Hugo tried not to stare at Claire's round pale breast, or the rose-tipped nipple which peeked out as she changed Aaron from one side to the other. He kept his eyes on her face as much as he could, until the soft white hills below her slim neck didn't seem so enthralling. 

As he relaxed, desire no longer twisted at him. Instead, he basked in the delight of mother and child together. She played with Aaron's feet as he suckled, and he reached up to touch her face, or tugged gently at her hair. It was like watching a conversation made of song or dance, where even if you didn't understand the language, you could figure out everything being said. Claire's face softened with pleasure, and Hugo could have sat there for hours, silent because the scene called for no words. 

Aaron's eyelids began to droop, and even though the baby forced them open, the heavy lids fell again. "He's slowing down," Claire remarked. 

Hugo barely heard her, though. A sharp sense nagged him like the rough, unwelcome hand which shakes your shoulder at six in the morning, when you have to be up for the early shift that nobody wants. 

The living room curtains were wide open, but reflected light filled the windows so that nothing outside could be seen. Someone was looking in, though. Hugo was sure of it, even though he heard nothing on the wooden porch. 

The sense vanished as quickly as it had come. He tried to relax his shoulders, taking deep breaths. 

The baby let the breast fall from his mouth, and Claire's attention swung back to Hugo. "You okay, Hurley? You look like a goose just walked over your grave."

"Nah, it's nothing." Again he fought the urge to get it off his chest once and for all. Either she would either understand, or she'd never speak to him again. Back at the beach, Claire had yelled at Charlie, that she didn't want any liars or druggies around her baby. Why wouldn't she feel the same way about crazy people? 

True, he hadn't heard or seen anything unusual in the past few weeks. Not since before Libby got killed. But there was that weird walk back to the beach from Pala Ferry. And the dreams. At least he hoped they were dreams, because if not— "It's nothing," he repeated. "I think my stomach's just not used to popcorn, is all."

"I could make you some mint tea. There's a big patch of it in that overgrown garden." She handed him the baby. "Here, take Aaron. He needs to be upright for a bit anyway, before I lay him down again."

Hugo hoisted the limp baby onto his shoulder. That seemed to revive Aaron, who shoved a few locks of Hugo's hair into his mouth. Hugo tried to pull the baby away, but Aaron hung on, starting to whimper.

"Just pat him a bit on the back," Claire said, as she crushed mint leaves into a teapot. "He probably has a little bubble." 

A few light taps did nothing, and Aaron continued to fuss. Finally Claire said, "He's not going to break, Hurley. Give him a thump." 

When Hugo tapped the baby a little harder, he hit the jackpot. Aaron let out a resounding belch. Warm stickiness covered the left side of Hugo's hair and ran down his neck. A dark wet stain spread across the front of his t-shirt. The burp smelled like yogurt, but more sour.

"Oh, brother," Hugo said. "He nailed me good."

The baby started to crow, very pleased with himself.

( _continued_ )


	4. Don't Walk Away

"You little monkey, come here." As Claire reached for Aaron, a long strand of white goo laced its way down the front of Hugo's shirt. The wet stuff on his hair and back started to drip, warm and slimy. Claire looked between Hugo and the baby, fighting hard not to laugh. "Both of you need to be hosed down. No, I take that back, Hurley. You got it far worse." She wiped the mess off Aaron's face and chest. "Hang on. I've got to get his basket."

By the time she got back, the goop was beginning to dry and stiffen, and the sour-milk smell grew even stronger. Claire laid Aaron in the basket, in the middle of the kitchen floor, then turned to Hugo with a small smile still playing around her lips. "So what are we going to do with you, then?"

"I should just go. Sorry, Claire, what a mess."

"You didn't make it. Funny, though, Aaron hasn't done that for awhile now."

"Guess he just got inspired," Hugo said in a weak voice.

"You don't have to go," she said, suddenly serious. "Unless you want to."

He could go back to his house, barge in on Sawyer and Kate, endure Sawyer's jibes, take a shower, go to bed clean and fresh-smelling. Or he could stay here, soaked and smelly, which didn't seem to faze her at all. Actually, he'd willingly be coated in mud head to toe and dipped in dung besides, if being clean meant he'd have to be away from her. "I'll go outside and use the hose.”

"Not in the dark you won't. The back-door light's busted." 

"Man, does it always smell like this?"

"Silly, it's just milk. I'd offer you a shower, but that's out of commission, too. Tub only, and it takes forever to fill. Look, it's simple. Just take off your shirt. We'll get your hair first, and the shirt later."

He stood staring, hardly believing what he just heard. The last woman to tell him to take off his clothes had been a middle-aged psychic in a rundown palmistry studio on the low-rent edge of Beverly Hills. His father had put her up to it, it had turned out. In the frozen silence of the drive home, David Reyes had defended himself. There was nothing wrong with an older woman showing an inexperienced guy how to be a man. Hugo was crazy not to take her up on it. 

When David looked over at Hugo's face, he swiftly shut up. 

At the time, Hugo didn't know what was more appalling, that his father would do something like that, or that it took over a thousand dollars to convince a woman, even one as old and homely as the psychic, to sleep with him. It wasn't until weeks later that Hugo wondered how his father had even known that the woman was for sale in the first place. 

Hugo still burned from the embarrassment. But there was nothing like that in Claire's tone. Still, at first he didn't want to. Even when he swam he left his shirt on. No matter how hot it got, no matter how hard he worked at digging or lifting logs, no matter if practically every other man on the beach went bare-chested in the tropical sun, Hugo stayed covered up. It was only when he crept off to the secret pool halfway to the edge of the Dark Territory, the one no one else knew anything about, that he undressed fully and bathed. Even then, he never lost the sense of being watched, never could put aside the fear that someone would surprise him, would point and laugh and mock.

Claire looked quiet and thoughtful, as if she sensed his discomfort. "It's just bodies, Hurley. It's nature."

"Yeah, I know, but—"

"Hurley, there are beaches in Sydney where people don't wear anything, you know?"

"You mean, no swim suit?"

"That's right."

"Yeah, the Mr. Atlases and the super-models, I bet."

"You'd be surprised." A sharp and critical expression darted across her face, but it wasn't directed at him. "You wouldn't be the largest man I've ever seen." 

"What the hell," he muttered, mostly to himself, and raised his sodden t-shirt. 

She helped him pull it off, careful not to scrape his skin with her nails. "Let me tell you a story about that. Thomas and I, there we were at the nude beach. It was hotter than hot, thirty five, thirty eight degrees maybe." 

She didn't catch his puzzled expression at her use of Centigrade, just tugged the rest of the shirt off him, and draped it over the kitchen chair. She ran the water in the sink, testing it with her hand to see when it got warm. "There was this big group of Japanese blokes, the wrestlers, you know? And girls, they had all these girls with them. Mostly Japanese, but some Aussies, too." 

She guided Hugo's head under the sink. He was putty in her hands; she could have led him anywhere. Water ran over his sticky hair as she reached over his broad shoulders to rinse his head. When her soft breasts pressed up against him, he almost stopped listening, but then the story got interesting.

"Anyway, there were three of these guys sunbathing, all starkers. They'd make you look small, Hurley. Then there were four or so of the younger guys, not so big. I guess they have to grow into their full stature, or something. But they were all chilling with the girls and their mates, talking to each other in Japanese or once in awhile in English. Then one of the biggest wrestlers, he went off to buy a shave ice. That's when these jerks came up, surfer types, and started giving the big Japanese guy a hard time."

She worked a few drops of dish soap into Hugo's wet hair with her surprisingly strong fingers, still leaning up against him in that delightful way. "Well, I don't want to repeat what they said. It was ugly, though. Then a couple of the younger wrestlers got involved, and we thought there'd be a dust-up. The meanest one squared off with one of the young wrestlers, trying to get him to fight. The big wrestler just stood behind them with arms folded, not saying a word. A few beach cops watched the show too, but didn't make a move. Finally the yobbo lunged at the Japanese guy."

"Bet he used some kind of kung-fu on him, right?"

Rinsing out soap, Claire laughed. "Nope, just gave him one good right cross to the chops. The guy went down, his mates grabbed him, and they got out of there. The Japanese went back to their blankets like nothing happened. A lot of people clapped and cheered. Me included." 

She wrapped a towel around Hugo's head and went on in a conversational tone, "The next day we heard the yob's jaw was broken. Everybody thought he got what he deserved. Look, bend down, so I can reach."

When Claire finished toweling his hair and moved on to his chest, Hugo couldn't fool himself any more. She wasn't just being nice. She was enjoying this, especially the way she kept glancing over his chest and down the wide curve of his stomach. When he caught her out, she grabbed the dirty t-shirt, and started washing it in the sink. 

With a little sigh, he tugged at his masses of wet hair.

"What's wrong?" she said, setting the wet shirt on the counter.

"It's just that, uh, if I don't comb it, it turns to dreads."

"I've got just the thing,” she said, and headed for the bedroom.

From his basket, Aaron played with his own toes, trying to jam them into his mouth. Claire returned a moment later with a dry towel. After draping it around his shoulders like a mantle, she gestured to one of the kitchen chairs. "Here, I'll give you a combing-out."

Hugo balanced himself on the narrow stainless steel chair, as Claire picked gently through his hair with a wooden wide-toothed comb. She arranged the locks one by one without a single pull or snag, then rubbed a little hand lotion between her palms. As she worked it through his hair and massaged it into his scalp, he leaned back, eyes closed, while soft breezes from the open kitchen window and her cool, soothing hands played over his head. Then, too soon, she was done. 

"That's nice," he said. "Way better than fingers. Which is what I been using."

"There's an extra comb in the bathroom. You can have it."

"Thanks, Claire. But I guess I ought to be getting back." Hugo waited, wondering if she would say otherwise, hoping for something he couldn't admit. If he did stay, well, he knew where he wanted that to go. But something held him back, a sense that it wasn't time. Not now. Not yet.

"Right. I guess you should." Claire didn't sound sad, or glad. She just studied the baby in his basket. Then she turned to Hugo and said, "Why should you? Kate's not going to be back tonight anyway."

Hope leapt in Hugo's chest, squashed almost at once by an even stronger sense of responsibility. "Well, she might. You never know."

"I could put some blankets on the couch. And leave a note for her, so she won't freak out if she comes in and sees you."

"That way my shirt could dry out."

"You could hang it on the line. This breeze keeps up, it'll be dry by morning."

"I don't want to, uh, get in the way. I mean, you got your hands full here." He looked down at the baby because he didn't want her to see the naked hope in his eyes.

She smiled in the dim yellow kitchen light. "More hands, lighter work."

"As long as its, like, no trouble."

"Believe me, Hurley. It's not."

( _continued_ )


	5. Dark Soul of the Night

The porch light went on, and the front door to Claire's house opened. Claire's house, it was now and would so be for the rest of its short life, because Kate would never again sleep there, until that time when a whizzing shell would blow it to pieces with Claire inside. 

Carrying the wet shirt, Hugo made his way to the clothesline, fumbling for wooden pins in the dark. He didn't see the shadowy figure of the man who watched him intently from the shadows, half-hiding behind a clump of beech trees. Nor did Hugo see the glint of hatred in Locke's eyes, nor the clenched set of his jaw.

A bird chirped directly overhead, almost mocking. In its wake rose a faint feathery rustle, too light to be wind, too quiet to be heard except within the dim recesses of the heart.

"Disgusting," Locke whispered as he watched Hugo's shirtless figure, although the words weren't entirely his own. He could barely discern anymore which thoughts were his and which came from that inner presence which he called "the voice of the Island." 

He tried to puzzle out how this had happened without him even seeing it. Hugo and Claire, how impossible. Ridiculous, even. And she had seemed like such a nice girl, too, devoted to Charlie Pace, even though that sullen little lout hadn't been worth it. Not that he, John Locke, could be worth it either.

More faint echoes of that inner voice formed in his mind. _Perhaps she sails with the sisters of Lesbos,_ it whispered.

At first Locke didn't know what that was supposed to mean. He also knew better than to ask, because the voice never answered. Lesbos? Lesbian? Then he got it. Why else would a woman pick a man whose breasts were bigger than hers? 

"Well, that explains a lot," Locke dryly whispered to himself.

A response snickered in Locke's mind, unpleasant like the too-close buzz of an insinuating, suggesting wasp. _You watch, but do not act. If you want the woman, take her._

Locke said nothing. Amazing how the Island seemed to know so much about him, but not everything. And especially not that. "All in good time," Locke whispered. 

Like a bolt out of nowhere, the old bitterness hit again, because there was Claire standing in the doorway now, framed by an aureole of yellow light. Her smile hurt because it wasn't directed at him. 

Hugo thumped back up onto the porch, where he and Claire stood talking in the fresh night breeze, while scraps of words not his own flew through Locke's mind. _She's fair_ , flashed one phrase, with the taste of golden hair about it, of pearly-pale skin and delicate beauty. _Her hips have been duly tried_ flickered by, too, and he puzzled that one out for a second before blushing red in the dark. 

Some jerk running around in Australia had a son, one he neither knew nor cared about, and good men like him, John Locke, men who respected women when they didn't act like tramps, well, he went without. _She could bear for you,_ came the final unbidden thought, which made Locke clench his jaw even harder.

He stopped himself at once. One thing you could say about anger management class was that it sure taught you how to loosen that jaw. The last thing he needed was a cracked tooth. The Island could do a lot; that he was even walking around was proof of that. But fixing a tooth, well, the only dentist was down at the beach camp on the other side of the Island. 

While Locke didn't think Bernard would refuse help even to the likes of him, his wife Rose was another story. When the two groups had parted ways at what remained of Oceanic 815's fuselage, Rose had looked right through him with icy hatred and contempt. It was almost as if she knew. 

Rose had been healed by the Island. Locke had been, too, but not completely. Yes, he could walk, which was a miracle in and of itself. Other things had been set right, small things, each one of which by itself wasn't all that serious. But time and age took a toll on a body, and every new ache, every minor infirmity arrived never to depart, until each day was made up of a whole host of tiny pains, each more annoying and ultimately depressing than the last.

Those pains, though, had mostly vanished. The throbbing around his old kidney-donation scar, the sluggish digestion, the pounding morning headaches: all gone. 

All except for one affliction, the one that had arrived with his paralysis. The rehabilitation center doctor had told him the news in tones of syrupy, professional kindness. Sometimes it wasn't permanent. Sometimes function did return. If not, there were methods. Surgery. Devices. That was when Locke had started to shout, and his angry cries had driven the doctor out of the room.

Shortly after the crash, as soon as Locke could be decently alone, he had found a shadowed place deep in the forest. There, observed only by the mocking birds, he called forth every memory, every fantasy, every image from every pornographic movie, every lewd conversation he'd had on multiple 1-900 calls. Nothing happened. Nothing. He chalked it up to anxiety over the crash, and the odd sense of never being completely alone. 

Then he had tried again when he went to live down in the Swan Station, but nothing ever happened, not in the morning before he rose to make water, not even in sleep, or dreams. He was dead down there, as dead and paralyzed as his legs had been.

So on that day a month ago, when Claire in a timid but friendly voice had asked Locke if she and the baby could sleep down in the Swan Hatch with him, he had frozen in panic, and fumbled for some hasty excuse. No, he said, it was too noisy. There was an alarm. It might wake the baby. But that wasn't it at all. What terrified him more than anything was what she would think if she were to slide into his bunk one night, as he knew she would, and find him not to be a man at all. 

Locke had watched the women survivors who clustered at the beach, how they sat in groups and talked while they worked, their voices rising and falling like the calls of birds. How could women talk so much? What could they possibly have to say, hour after hour? The women chirped merrily until Locke, or Charlie, or James would walk by, and then they fell silent until the man in question had passed. Then the prattle picked up again. 

Locke had envisioned how all those chattering voices would talk about him, were they to learn of his failure. Back then he thought, not for the first time, _I'd have to kill them._ Whoever told the secret, whoever exposed his shame. _I'll kill them all, if necessary._

Then Claire retreated into the house, covered by Hugo's huge silhouette as he followed. As he pulled the door shut behind him, the lock gave an audible click. Peering through the living room window, Locke could see the two of them still talking, and at one point their heads came so close they almost touched. 

Locke ran his hand over his own pate, wiping away clammy sweat. Shameless she was, and with a baby in the house, too. Inside he groaned a little, torn between disgust and desire.

The strange presence in Locke's mind delivered its final salvo. _Your loss_ , the voice said before fading away. "Wait," Locke called out, aloud this time. "You said I could meet you again, at the cabin. That you would tell me what to do." But no one, nothing answered.

Overhead the birds cawed. If John Locke had not been so desperately clinging to his last few rags of sanity, he would have said they called out in triumph. Then the lights from inside Claire's cabin went out, plunging the whole of the Barracks into darkness. Alone in the pit of the night, John Locke stared into that black hole where Xanadu would never be.

( _continued_ )


	6. Acceptable Risk

A few days later, Hugo juggled Aaron across his hip as he let himself into the Barracks house which he and Sawyer shared. He tried to be as quiet as possible, so as not to wake Sawyer. In this house, though, that wasn't much of an option. As he crossed the living room, he bumped some kind of little figurine that had been set too close to the edge of a table, and it clattered to the floor. 

The house was full of stuff like that: plates that you couldn't eat off of, little glass animal statues, strings of beads roped around the corner of mirrors. A woman had lived there before Hugo and Sawyer, and although Hugo had stayed in the house a short time, he'd managed to knock over most everything.

Sawyer charged out of his bedroom, pistol in hand, his morning beard bristling in the bright gold of new daylight. When he saw Hugo and the baby, he lowered the gun and sighed in exasperation. “Daddy-O, what're you doing here? I thought you were over at Claire's.” 

“I was,” Hugo said. “She's sleeping in.”

“So how come you got Aaron?”

“It was, uh, my idea. Kind of a Christmas present. That I'd watch Aaron for the day.”

“You gonna feed him too? Haven't seen any Dharma baby formula around here.”

“She already fed him. I'll take him back around lunchtime.”

“So Claire's tired, huh?” 

“She's been busy. You see that big chicken run she put together? And now with Kate gone—”

Sawyer's look of concern turned to a sly grin. “Or maybe there's another reason she's tired, hey?”

Hugo motioned to the baby in his arms with a Watch your mouth expression. “It's not like that,” he said in a soft voice. His thick eyebrows formed a straight line of thunder across the horizon of his face.

Sawyer ignored the warning. “Oh, baby here can't understand me none. What _is_ it like, then? You two been steppin' on each other's shadows ever since we got here. Then I saw you making eyes at each other at that meeting last night. And while I ain't doin' any bed checks, I haven't seen your covers messed up none.” 

When Hugo glared, Sawyer hesitated. “What's the big deal? We're all grownups here. Well, most of us, I guess,” he said, thinking of Alex and Karl snug in a little house of their own across the common, at least until they'd high-tailed it out for the Temple, whatever that was. It had been fun to watch Ben's eyes bug out when Karl and Alex walked home to the same cottage together, and there wasn't a damn thing the owl-eyed little bastard could do about it. But kids grew up fast here on Mystery Island.

“She didn't want to be alone.”

“Well, Hugo, I got news for you. She wouldn't be the first woman in the world to ask a man to stay the night because she got a bit lonely.”

“Sawyer—”

“And you tired her out. That's a good sign. Nothing wrong with a gal riding the pony when she's free, legal, and over 21. Or in your case, riding the Clydesdale.”

Hugo didn't say anything, but the silence around him ticked like a bomb. He turned and shoved open the swinging kitchen door so hard that it smacked against the wall. 

“What the hell?” Sawyer muttered.

After setting Aaron in a nest on the couch, Hugo strode back into the kitchen like a bear pushing through the forest in slow motion. He stood next to Sawyer, quite close, and Sawyer backed up a few inches. 

“Hey, man, I didn't mean—” Sawyer began.

“Dude,” Hugo said, his voice getting softer as he spoke, so that Sawyer had to lean in to hear him, even though he really didn't want to get that close to those pawlike hands. Sawyer had felt Hugo's fists once before across his face and chest, and the memory wasn't pleasant. Good thing Hugo didn't have a clue how to fight, or Sawyer might not have crawled out from under the wreck of his own tent in one piece. What the man lacked in skill, he sure as hell made up for in sheer momentum.

“Claire is nice,” Hugo went on. “Really nice. I might even have a chance with her someday. But Charlie hasn't been gone a week.”

“Aw, come on,” Sawyer said. “You and I both know there was never much grass growing on that field to start with.”

“Yeah, whatever. And one more thing. Did you look through the drawers around here? The medicine cabinets? They got Dharma issue everything else. You ever see any Dharma condoms?”

Sawyer hated to admit it, but Hugo was right. Sawyer hadn't, and believe you me, he'd looked pretty damned carefully when Kate was still here. “Well, hoss, I guess their women were all on the Pill.”

“So, was Kate?”

“Was Kate what?”

“On the Pill.”

“How the hell would I know?”

“You slept with her, dude.”

“Yeah, I slept with her. So what are you, her big brother or something? Goddamn, Hugo, it's like the other day, when you looked like my old granny with a poker up her butt when I told you that Kate thought she was pregnant. What the hell is with you? We're adults. We have sex. Join the club.”

Hugo's face was set in stone now, and his voice was a whisper. “Don't you remember what Juliet told Sun? Pregnant women die on this island, Sawyer. They get pregnant, and then they die.”

“Bullshit. Claire didn't die. In fact, she got the perfect little Michelin Tire baby. Never seen one so chunky at that age.”

“Juliet's a doctor. She knows.”

“I still say bullshit. The Others make up all kinds of crap to play with your head.” Wild horses couldn't drag the story out of Sawyer, of waking up strapped to a table with what he thought was a bomb stuck in his chest. Being told by Ben that it was all a fake. That the only way to win the respect of a con-man was to successfully con him yourself. Well, he'd like to con that little son-of-a-bitch right now, with a two-by-four upside the head.

Hugo was unconvinced. “Yeah, but what if it's true?”

Sawyer's face screwed up, as something finally broke through the ice. “Wonder if anyone dropped the 411 on Karl and Missy Alex over in their little love shack?” Sawyer rubbed his chin, glad Hugo had backed off a bit, and now he was genuinely worried.

Hugo's face twisted up in concern, too. “Dunno. I figured Rousseau would have, you know, given them the talk. Her being the mom and all. Although my mom, no way.”

“That's obvious,” Sawyer said in a dry tone.

If Hugo heard the jibe, he didn't acknowledge it. “So yeah, I been staying the night in Kate's room. And don't talk about Claire that way, okay?” He leaned over into Sawyer, bringing his face quite close, and enunciated every word. “Dude. I. Am. Not. You.”

“Gotcha, amigo” Sawyer answered, rummaging around for coffee. Anything to avoid those dark brown eyes boring holes into him. The coffee can was empty, though. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Then something came back to him, something he'd overlooked. “You said Claire's been seeing something weird at night? Like what?”

“I dunno. She didn't really want to talk about it. Just a feeling, like something was watching her through the windows. Hanging around outside the house.” 

Sawyer shuddered. He didn't want to tell Hugo that he had sensed the same thing, two nights in a row. “Damn it, Hugo, why didn't you tell me this before?” He left the kitchen, moving through the living room as if he wanted to go hunting right then and there. Hugo followed him, taking up Aaron into his arms along the way. Sawyer pulled his shirt on, tugging the fabric so hard that the buttons strained, and jammed the gun into his waistband. 

“Whatever it was, it didn't come back last night,” Hugo said. “She thought it might have been Locke.”

“Locke, a peeping Tom?”

“She said he used to watch her on the beach. And then, for awhile, they. You know.”

Sawyer continued to scratch his beard. The woman whose house he lived in didn't have any razors or shaving cream. Just this wipe-on stuff that might be good for the peach fuzz on a woman's legs, but not his coarse stubbly growth. "Yeah, the two of them kept company for awhile."

Hugo shifted a bit, suddenly off-balance and unsure. "That's history. He scares her now."

“I never liked the thought of her over in that house across the yard, all by herself,” Sawyer said. Then half to himself he added, “Damn it, Kate, why'd you have to go and leave?” To Hugo, he said, “Well, if she'll have you, you go right ahead and keep doing what you're doing. And not just cause I like my privacy. I got your back, Hugo.”

“Hey, man, it was probably nothing.” 

Sawyer shook his head as if to clear it. After Locke's Christmas dinner, Sawyer had stepped out onto the porch for a breath of air, watching Hugo and Claire as they walked back to Claire's house. Something had hung in the air over Claire's bungalow, or maybe it was drifting along the tree line. Something misty and dark had passed over the growing moon, a thin darkness blown in on a cool wind, but not a fresh one. 

Sawyer's doorbell rang. “What now?” Sawyer grumbled as he opened the door.

On the porch stood John Locke, carrying an oblong box in his hand. “Anyone up for a game of Risk?” 

“Maybe, if you got coffee,” Sawyer said. “We're fresh out here.”

“Indeed I do,” said Locke. “You in, Hugo?” Then Locke noticed Aaron. “You babysitting?” 

“Something like that.”

“My place or yours?” Sawyer said to Locke, his face hard and sarcastic. 

“Let's go back to Ben's, er, my house. There's that big table in the living room.”

“Whatever,” Hugo said. “Just give me a minute to get the baby's things.”

“Wait, I've seen this movie,” Sawyer said. “Four Men and a Baby. Hugo here counts for two.”

"Dude, bad form," said Hugo. "You used that joke already. Anyway, let me leave a note for Claire. I told her I'd bring Aaron over here. She'll freak if she comes by and we're gone.”

Out of Hugo's hearing, Sawyer said to Locke with a crooked smile, “Not even getting any, and he's whipped already.”

Locke said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. The morning sunlight seemed to chill for a few seconds. A cold, sour wind whispered through the trees, and a few birds took to the skies, shrieking in anger or fear.

( _the end_ )


End file.
